


Crisps

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mindless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's eating Pringles. Mycroft isn't amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisps

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of ridiculous fluff for the impeccable [wearitcounts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts%22), who ships our tumblr icons. :D

"Gregory." The tone is clipped, somehow both stern and exhausted at once. It’s particularly Mycroftian, that tone. Greg knows it well. He pops another crisp into his mouth and smiles.

"Yes, love?" he responds, mouth full. He can see Mycroft’s left eyelid twitching. He tries not to laugh, and mostly succeeds.

"First of all," Mycroft begins, mouth folding down into an even deeper frown (and now Greg is laughing, although he’s really trying to hide it, because he doesn’t want to make Mycroft too angry but when he makes _that face_ it’s hard not to let a chuckle escape), “is that incessant _chomping_ really necessary? Honestly, you sound like a - like a -” and Mycroft breaks off, apparently too offended to even think of a simile. “It’s uncouth,” he finishes, half-heartedly.

Greg hums in response. “And second of all?”

Mycroft tries to avoid the question, picking up the remote and fiddling with the volume. Greg plunges his hand into the can, brings up a handful, and shoves all of them in his mouth, snorting as Mycroft shoots the most _violent_ glare at him, one that makes him thoroughly grateful the Holmes boys haven’t yet developed ways to shoot lasers out their eyes.

(At least, Sherlock hasn’t. He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft, or one of his divisions, to be working on some android-laser creation. He shudders. Better not to ask.)

"Second of all, I’m not supposed to eat crisps, but those are my favorite." He looks at Greg helplessly, and if that isn’t the most endearing thing Greg has ever seen, the British government reduced to puppy eyes with a can of crisps, he doesn’t know what could possibly top it.

Nestling closer to his boyfriend, Greg tips the can towards Mycroft. “One or two isn’t going to hurt, Myc. Go on, have a few.” He means this to be encouraging, helpful, a little cheat to make dieting less hopelessly dull. It does not have that effect.

Instead, Mycroft’s face contorts deeper into the frown he’s already sporting - Greg’s shocked that it’s even possible, but no, it definitely is - and he stands abruptly. “Gregory, that is _not helpful_ and I don’t appreciate your attempts to sabotage my weight loss. I’m going to bed.”

And he flounces away in that Holmesian way he shares with his brother - though neither will ever admit it, will never admit to sharing anything, hardly even manage to share Greg - and Greg’s left staring at the can, unsure whether to feel annoyed or guilty.

In the end he feels a bit of both, finishes what he’s watching on telly, washes up, and goes to bed.

When he wakes up, inexplicably, around five the next morning, Mycroft isn’t in the bed with him. Worried, he stuffs his feet into his slippers and pads downstairs, hoping nothing’s happened -

and has to hold both hands over his mouth to keep the sound of his guffaws from waking his ridiculous love, who is sprawled out on the sofa, empty crisp can horizontal on the floor, crumbs littering his chest. He’s snoring lightly, and after a moment of hesitation, Greg runs as quickly and as silently as he can back up to the bedroom and then down again.

His fatal error is not silencing the shutter on his phone, and Mycroft wakes with a _roar_ at the sound. “You will _pay_ for that, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft rumbles, and it’s so, so hard to take him seriously with the goofy grin on his face, the one Greg loves so very, very much.

"Oi, don’t come near me, crispy bastard!" Greg yells, and gives chase, laughing at the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps close behind.


End file.
